3 Notes
In which I write on the Metro
I have discovered that I don’t write much. So today, instead of listening to music or watching a TV show on my iPhone during my 45-minute Metro ride to work, I decided to write down all my observations and thoughts. I wrote them on a small notebook with a pen. I typed everything up just now. I don’t know if this is something I’m going to do everyday or not.
This is what I wrote:
I love the “whoosh” as a train passes by. I love the way it pushes wind through my hair. If I ever go bald, will that be what I miss the most? How will it feel then?
When the doors open, there’s always a rush to get to the seat facing the direction the train will be going. No one is willing to settle.
If you pick the aisle seat, you get to choose who sits at the window. You don’t have to scoot in. This is an unspoken rule, but I always wonder if anyone breaks it. And what the reaction is. Scoot the hell in, I want the aisle, I came later, I sometimes want to say. People are too nice. Or they don’t like causing a scene. Welcome to D.C.
Young woman sitting across the train is pretty and she’s reading Christopher Hitchens. She doesn’t have a ring on her finger. Marry me? Nontraditional ceremony?
At what point did I start looking at someone’s finger to see if they had a ring? What age did that happen? Was it 22? It seems like I’ve always done it, but I know I haven’t.
In India, couples have the ring on the right hand. In the Western world, it’s the left. The Western belief is that there is a vein that runs directly from the fourth finger of the left hand to the heart. It’s on the right in India because, well, you don’t use toilet paper in India. You use water. And you eat with your right hand, so…
What’s the bigger waste of resources? Water or toilet paper?
I once heard someone in this country say that toilet paper is “civilized.” Only the rich countries decide what is “civilized” or not. “Civilization” is a word used by the entitled.
They tell you not to lean against the door but everyone does. One day the door is going to give away and someone’s getting sucked into the subway tunnel. The outside air is going to be let in, quickly replacing the stale air in the car. There will be screaming. A klaxon might blare. This is what I’m picturing at 7:30 in the morning.
He looked at my boots. They always look at what I’m wearing on my feet, women and men. It’s like, ok, homeboy is dressed well up top, but is his foot game proper? Don’t worry, buddy, it is. But, relax, my style is attainable. I’m not special. These cost me $89. Ask me and I might tell you where.
Riding in a Metro car is like riding an elevator for 45 minutes. No one wants to make eye contact or talk. And anyone that does is instantly labeled as being a creep or a crazy person.
You can always tell who’s new to town. They get on all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The Metro is an experience to them. To the rest of us, it’s just another part of our day. It’s like brushing your teeth. No one really enjoys it, but it’s something we have to do.
Is that how I seem to others when I’m a tourist in their city? Can they tell right away?
Sometimes I see the same people. Half a million people live in this city, and I see the same ones. There’s a sense of familiarity, but no one acknowledges it. No one says “hi.” No one looks up. If I moved or died tomorrow, would they miss me? Would I miss them?
My stop is almost here. I might have time for one last observation. What’s it going to be?
I love D.C., but there are times when I feel like a morsel of food stuck in this city’s teeth.
